


Dolls and Goblins

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Captivity, Dungeon Raoul, Forced Crossdressing, M/M, Post-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 18:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: "Raoul hadn’t spoken a word since the girl left. He stared at Erik, still straining for breath—Erik had tightened the ropes around him so much as to be painful. His hair was a soaked mess, his shirt was in tatters, and his eyes were half closed. When Erik stepped closer and held the knife to his neck, he didn’t even flinch. He met Erik’s eyes, and Erik could see he didn’t care what happened to him anymore.He was satisfied. At peace. Fucking triumphant, ready to die a martyr’s death. It wasn’t mercy that made Erik cut the ropes instead of skin, it was anger. No. He wouldn’t grant that to Raoul, that clean, heroic ending. He wouldn’t let Raoul, who had ruined his life, play the part of sacrificial lamb."Or, the one where Erik decides to keep Raoul. Also there's some forced cross-dressing.





	Dolls and Goblins

He let the girl leave before he killed the boy. Forced her to leave, really, screamed at her about how she had made her choice and would have to stick with it, and she had no right to want to see Raoul’s end when she had chosen it for him. Pushed her into the boat and watched her row away. Why?

Maybe because he loved her. Maybe. If it was even love he was feeling, this tiger in his chest. Maybe he wanted to spare her the sight of her lover’s body, which would surely haunt her.

But it was not that exactly. For a moment he had stood there, after she had given him her answer, and tried to think of what to do next. He hadn’t been able to think about what to do with the boy. Kill him, certainly. But with her there he could not do it, couldn’t even think about it.

With her gone, it should have been easier. But it wasn’t.

Raoul hadn’t spoken a word since the girl left. He stared at Erik, still straining for breath—Erik had tightened the ropes around him so much as to be painful. His hair was a soaked mess, his shirt was in tatters, and his eyes were half closed. When Erik stepped closer and held the knife to his neck, he didn’t even flinch. He met Erik’s eyes, and Erik could see he didn’t care what happened to him anymore.

He was satisfied. At peace. Fucking triumphant, ready to die a martyr’s death. It wasn’t mercy that made Erik cut the ropes instead of skin, it was anger. No. He wouldn’t grant that to Raoul, that clean, heroic ending. He wouldn’t let Raoul, who had ruined his life, play the part of sacrificial lamb.

Raoul didn’t move at first. His hands and back were still braced against the portcullis and he stared at Erik. His eyes were not quite so calm any more.

There was only one rope left on him, the rope around his neck, and Erik yanked it, pulled him forward. He fell forward with a splash, then scrambled up. Erik hauled him slowly to shore, step by step. Raoul’s hands wrapped around the rope at his neck, trying to gain some leverage. But he was too weak to really fight, and when they reached dry land he collapsed on the ground with a groan.

Erik looked at him.

He still had the knife in his pocket, and even killing him with the rope would be very easy with him in this state. But he still didn’t feel like giving Raoul (giving the girl, whose name he refused to use even in his thoughts) what he wanted. Letting him play the part of a victim when he was the one who had somehow won, had somehow, even tied to a portcullis with a rope around his neck, stolen Christine away.

He tied Raoul’s hands behind his back. Raoul barely put up a fight about that. He looked up at Erik as if he were expecting Erik to hit him, so Erik didn’t. Instead, he hauled him up to his feet and said, “Do you think you’re the hero here, boy?”

Raoul said, “I think you’re the monster.” And he flinched away, and again, Erik refused to hit him.

“What you are is a sap. You’ve given your life up for a girl who doesn’t care about you. That doesn’t make you a hero.” Erik yanked on the rope again, forcing Raoul closer. They stood so close their chests almost touched, and the ripped cloth of Raoul’s shirt brushed against Erik’s. “That just makes you a fool. And it makes you dead.”

Raoul shuddered. But he met Erik’s eyes still. “You think you can make me afraid now?”

Erik finally gave in to temptation and backhanded him. The snap of his palm against skin was just too satisfying, as was Raoul’s surprised gasp. “What you are is bravado. You’re no hero—you’re just in love with her. You think that love means something.” He cinched the rope tighter. “If love means something, where is she? Why did she leave you? And why are you still so weak?”

Raoul didn’t answer. To be fair, it looked like he didn’t have the air. His arms twitched—were his arms not tied, Erik didn’t doubt he’d be clawing at his throat. His eyes were wide, and there it was, finally. Fear.

Erik hated Raoul, but he didn’t hate him quite as much like this.

At last, he cut the rope loose. As Raoul drew in heaving breaths, he asked, “Do you really want to die for her, monsieur?”

Raoul said, “No one wants to die.” He took another breath. “I will, if it saves her.”

It was disgusting, that devotion. It made Erik think of himself. He’d learned here that Christine was nothing, and still his feelings lingered, and clearly Raoul was the same.

He came to the decision, then, that he wouldn’t kill Raoul at all. It annoyed him, the thought of  letting this little romantic tragedy play out. What he would do instead, he wasn’t sure. For now, he shoved Raoul over to the corner where he’d put Ch—the girl’s bed, hoping she might someday live here with him. He threw Raoul into the bed, then tied a rope around Raoul’s ankles and fastened it to the footboard.

Raoul looked up at him warily. He hadn’t been fighting, but he wasn’t relaxed either. Erik pulled a blanket over him. “It’s been a long day, monsieur. We can discuss…matters…tomorrow.”

Raoul said, “Will you kill me then?”

Erik grinned. “Who knows?”

He paced around the lair, extinguishing most of the candles. When he came back to Raoul, Raoul was already asleep. He drew the drapes on the bed. No one was here to see Raoul except Erik, of course—there was no need for privacy. But asleep, Raoul’s face lost its fear and defiance both, and he looked far too vulnerable. Erik did not want to look at it.

It was too easy to look at Raoul and love him. That was why the girl had fallen, no doubt. Erik had almost fallen prey to the same trick many times. He would peek in on Raoul and the girl sitting together in the girl’s dressing room, the girl at her desk and Raoul cross-legged on the floor, much too short, see the half-shy but fully delighted smile on Raoul’s face, and almost choke on the delicacy of it. The girl in such moments might be a little bossy or a little smug; she might boast about her accomplishments at rehearsal or scold Raoul for arriving late. But Raoul would always laugh and smile and listen very attentively. In public, his persona was brusque and manly—he was commanding towards the managers and authoritative even towards Carlotta, acting the part of a powerful patron. But in private, his mask dropped away, and he became a very different person. Odd, how he became more charming when he was unaware of himself.

Erik had decided to keep him prisoner for now. He would have to be careful of those wiles. Better not to expose himself to them. Yet, after a few more minutes of pacing around the lair, he peeked through the drapes again. Raoul’s shiny-wet chest rose and fell rhythmically, and his hair was a mess against the pillow. He was completely adorable.

(For a moment a voice in Erik said, _there, aren’t you glad you didn’t just kill him_?)

Erik closed the drapes and went to his own bed. It was a long time before he fell asleep, and in his dreams he could not escape the girl or her echoing name. Christine, Christine, Christine.

* * *

But when he slept, he slept for a long time, and when he woke, his watch said it was already noon. Twelve o’clock. Christine had been gone for almost twelve hours, then. He got out of bed and changed. He glanced over at the canopy bed, then went down to his organ and banged around for maybe half an hour. _Don Juan Triumphant_ had lost its appeal. He played a classic number that he learned long ago. No noise from the bed. Maybe Raoul had died in his sleep—that would save them all a lot of trouble. He got up from the organ and pulled the drapes open.

Raoul was not only awake but alert. He was sitting upright, and he stared out at Erik. Erik instinctively checked that his mask was on—it was, it was his habit to put it on every morning and despite the storm last night he’d done the same today. He said, “Do you feel better for the rest, monsieur?”

Raoul slowly nodded. “…thank you for sparing me a bed.”

Erik laughed. “I’ve seen you sleep on chairs before. You are fond of exhausting yourself.”

“Well, as you know, the past few months you have kept me rather busy.” Raoul smiled thinly.

Erik chuckled. “Have I? I’m so sorry to have been a bother to you, monsieur.”

He hadn’t really thought through what he was going to do with Raoul last night, only decided not to kill him. Frankly it was a miracle with the state he was in that he’d even remembered to keep the boy tied up, but a very good thing—when he looked closely he could see that the ropes he’d left on Raoul were now twisted and a little bit fraying. Raoul must have been working at them ever since he woke up, to no avail.

He did look better for the sleep, or at least less of a wreck. His hair and clothes had dried during the night too, leaving his hair oddly messy. Erik had never seen him with bedhead before. On the other hand, his shirt was still completely destroyed. It hung open to show nearly his entire chest. Not that Erik objected—he could admit it was a decent view, and it would probably make Raoul uncomfortable once he got past the initial discomfort of even speaking to Erik—but he did try to maintain some level of decorum in his lair. He himself wore a good shirt and vest and mask even when no one was down here. Raoul was dragging the lair down to his level.

Erik said, “You’ll change. Then we’ll have breakfast.”

And on a whim, he found the Aminta dress Christine had left on the floor last night, and tossed it onto the bed.

Raoul scrutinized it. “Indeed, monsieur?”

“Is it not good enough for you?” Erik asked, raising his eyebrow. “It is some of the opera house’s finest work, and it was good enough for your lover, after all—I’m afraid I don’t have a whole wardrobe here, and you certainly can’t wear _my_ clothes, so you’ll have to take what you can get.”

“I feel no need to change.”

“I feel the need.”

Erik met Raoul’s eyes. Was this where Raoul would choose to pick a fight? That was what Erik thought today would be like—waiting for Raoul to fight him verbally, physically, in any way he could, and proving to Raoul that fighting Erik wouldn’t do any good; he was in Erik’s power now. It was going to be a long day. Was this where it would start?

Raoul shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “It won’t fit.”

“Corsets are adjustable.”Apparently the young idiot had never had occasion to help a woman take one off. To be fair, neither had Erik.

“I also happen to be tied hand and foot, which would make changing clothes a bit difficult,” Raoul growled.

Erik drew a knife and cut off the ropes. Then he stepped back, knife still in hand. “I don’t trust you untied, monsieur. I’m afraid I’ll have to watch you.”

Raoul eyed the knife. Slowly, he pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on the other side of the bed. He was still wearing a pair of damp boots, too, which he put down more carefully on the floor, and a pair of trousers, which he tried to remove gracefully and quickly so as to show Erik as little as possible.

Despite was Erik had said, the Aminta dress was a terrible fit. Raoul struggled into it feet-first, and barely got the top straps to fit on his arms. He tried to make them stay on his shoulders, and Erik shook his head. The design encouraged just the opposite. He also struggled to fasten the ties on the back of the corset. Erik said, “Let me.”

Raoul looked up and nodded. He turned his back to Erik and Erik stepped closer. When his hands touched Raoul’s back, Raoul struck.

He thrust his elbow back as hard as possible. Unfortunately Erik was bending down at a slant, so the elbow barely hit his chest. Then he started to whirl around, fist headed up toward Erik’s face, but Erik got his arm and twisted it behind his back. He grabbed the back of Raoul’s neck and shoved it down, practically folding Raoul in half. “You are not in a good _position_ to fight me right now, monsieur.”

He caught Raoul’s other arm and twisted it back too, then grabbed some of the rope left loose on the bed and tied them securely. “I would have preferred to fasten your corset with nothing in the way, but since you must cause trouble…”

“Fuck you,” Raoul gasped.

Erik maneuvered around his arms and pulled the corset tight, fastening the stays one by one. He might have pulled it a little tighter than necessary and enjoyed hearing the way Raoul’s breath hitched. Corsets were fashionable and sensible accessories for a woman accustomed to them—they supported the chest and held in the gut. For a man who had never worn one before, it was rather different.

He stepped back when he was done. “Turn around, monsieur. I’d like to see.”

Raoul held still.

Erik sighed, grabbed Raoul’s shoulder, and turned him around to inspect his work. The corset made Raoul look a bit thinner than usual, but then, he had seemed to be losing weight in the past few months, probably due to stress. The white lace looked good against his tanned skin, and the crimson and gold of the rest of the costume actually suited him better than Christine, which brought a wry smile to Raoul’s face. But his hair, after the struggle, was even more of a mess.

Erik fetched a hairbrush.

Raoul stiffened. Maybe he thought Erik would swat him with it. It was a little hilarious how quickly he turned defensive in Erik’s presence. Certainly it was the only reason Erik hadn’t seriously injured him yet; arrogance annoyed him more than skittishness. He spoke soothingly. “Your hair is a mess, monsieur. Will you let me untangle it?”

“I think I don’t have to _let_ you do anything,” Raoul said bitterly.

Erik laughed because it was true. He held Raoul’s head still as he brushed his hair down more or less gently. He was honestly surprised Raoul didn’t try to bite him.

Finished, he admired the effect. Raoul looked…well, he didn’t look his normal well-groomed self, it was true (he would have needed a jacket and trousers for that), and despite the dress he really didn’t look that much like a woman either, but in any case he looked neat and oddly good, and Erik was satisfied with the effect. “Now, I said we would eat, didn’t I?”

Raoul said, “Yes.”

“Come along then.” He headed towards the lair’s kitchen, and Raoul stumbled after.

* * *

He was right that Raoul would be trouble. He was trouble all day, trying to attack Erik every time Erik got near enough. Erik saw his eyes fixed on the lever that controlled the portcullis and then, in turns, on the portcullis itself. It might be a while before Erik managed to break him of that habit, assuming Raoul stayed that long.

What to do with him, what to do with him.

He didn’t go up the opera house all day. He assumed there was an uproar there, but he was past finding it interesting. People would be talking about him, certainly, but why should he care what they thought, what they said? He wasn’t sure he even cared about all the concessions he’d dragged out of the opera house in the past, whether in the future he’d go back to insisting they phase out Carlotta and keep an opera box open for him. Right now he cared about very little, and the things he did care about, the things he’d lost ( _Christine Christine Christine_ ), he was trying to ignore.

Maybe that was what Raoul was to him. A distraction. Raoul kept him busy, stopped him from thinking.

Erik finally left the lair late that night, after tying Raoul securely to the bed again and tucking him in, which made Raoul glare at him. He had shopping to do. Well. When he said shopping…

The opera house had kitchens, from which he took plenty of bread and cheese, some fruit, and a few eggs. Normally that would be it for him, but he had a new guest to take care of as well, and today had proved that there was in particular a dearth of clothing. Erik headed out to the store where he stole his favorite shirts. He stood looking in their window for a long moment, trying to picture Raoul in any of the suits on display. They were all cutting edge fashion. For some reason the image made him uncomfortable.

It was, he thought, that while Raoul left off balance could be amusing and even…well, to himself at least he could admit it…attractive, Raoul in his own element was…

Well. Erik wouldn’t call him intimidating (when had Erik ever been intimidated by a foolish, delicate boy?) but at the very least, his presence was not quite so comfortable. Pictuing Raoul in a man’s shirt, even ripped, put him in mind of the Raoul he’d met at the graveyard all those weeks ago. The Raoul who had once, for just a minute, pointed a sword at Erik’s chest and forced Erik to cringe back in the snow.

Raoul in his element was at least competent enough to get into Erik’s lair, he reminded himself, when all the police chasing him the other night had failed. He did not need to give Raoul anything that would lend him confidence.

He crossed the street. On the other side was a shop for ready made women’s dresses. They came in various sizes, and while you could specially order them, there were always some available in the shop as well. It was a very modern, well run shop. Erik picked the lock and slipped in.

He picked up some dresses that looked a bit bigger than average but not huge. Not that he knew Raoul’s measurements perfectly, but after a day together he thought he could estimate them. He also grabbed some undergarments, also for women. Forcing Raoul into a slip and bloomers might not be easy, but on the other hand, the lair could be very cold. He’d leave it to Raoul’s choice whether he wanted them or not.

When he got back, the noise of the portcullis opening woke Raoul up, and he asked Erik what he had done while he was out.

Erik summarized it in a word. “Shopping.”

Bleary-eyed, Raoul scoffed. “You’re still wearing the same mask, and there’s a manhunt after you.”

“No one saw me,” Erik said. “No one ever sees me, when I don’t want them to.” He held out the bag he got from the dress shop. “I picked up some things for you.”

Raoul frowned. His hands were tied, so Erik opened the bag for him, and placed the dresses one by one in his lap. He’d picked out a variety of colors; seeing Raoul is red and gold today had brought him to the realization that the man’s complexion was wasted in his typical white, cream and black ensembles. Erik had brought back blue, green, yellow, red, some colors more pastel and some vibrant. It was a big bag—he’d fit in six dresses total and one set of undergarments.

Raoul waited until he was done to say, “You want to mock me, then?”

“I brought you clothes that I thought would suit you.”

“You may bring them back.”

Erik gently caressed Raoul’s cheek. So many things he could say to him, bringing back a gift like this. He could say that a fop was only three steps away from being a girl anyhow, or that his weakness in losing to Erik had cost him his manhood. He could be harsh and say that a bitch should dress like a bitch—Raoul would expect something like that from him. What he finally said was the truth, “You looked good today.”

Raoul paled slightly.

“And you are mine now,” Erik said, “so you will dress as I like.” He folded the dresses neatly but instead of putting them in a bag, he put them in a set of drawers he’d put next to the bed. He’d arranged things very neatly for Christine, hoping he might persuade her to stay with him. At least some of his preparations wouldn’t be wasted.

He tucked the blankets back around Raoul and said, “I’m sorry I woke you up. Get some sleep.” He pulled the drapes closed.

He was too kind to Raoul, really. The boy didn’t deserve it, part of him said. The boy had stolen Christine and ruined everything. But here they were, stranded in the dark together, and Erik knew he’d never either deserved kindness or received it. So for once in his life he would be generous.

It wasn’t his fault Raoul couldn’t recognize anything in him but cruelty. And eventually, Raoul would learn to be grateful. Now that he’d begun to arrange for Raoul’s presence in his life, it had been decided. Raoul wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

Raoul put up less fuss about changing into a different dress the next morning than Erik might have expected. This was, Erik thought, probably because the Aminta dress was much too small and intensely sexual, whereas the spring green number Erik offered him was larger and covered the arms and most of the chest. He still tried to attack Erik when Erik helped with his buttons but Erik really didn’t expect anything less from him.

Seeing him in a modest green dress, suitable for a young lady walking about the park or going visiting, was odder than seeing him in the Aminta costume. Because the Aminta costume was very much, well, a costume, but this dress was simply a piece of clothing performing its function. It was casually elegant, still slimming but hardly even flirtatious in its femininity. And it suited Raoul even better. It was quiet; Raoul was quiet. It was humble, and Raoul, at least when he was with Christine, could be very submissive. It also matched his eyes. Erik was quite pleased.

Raoul, not so much.

Erik left his hands untied for breakfast (instead tying his waist to the chair to keep him from running) and though he had enough sense not to punch Erik in the face he couldn’t stop fiddling with his clothes. With the lace at the end of his sleeves, with the high buttoned collar on his neck. He also was constantly fiddling with his skirt—or maybe his waistline, with the table in the way it was hard to tell. Erik laughed.

“You look fine, darling,” he said. “I picked out the dress, I’m not about to object.”

Raoul shot him a look.

“You want to discuss this again? I thought the matter settled last night.”

“How long do you intend to continue this farce?” Raoul asked. “You said you would kill me.”

“Do you want to be killed?”

“Obviously no. But how long do you intend to, to…” Raoul gestured at his dress. “And what do you even mean by it?”

Erik stood. He walked over to the bed and picked up Raoul’s boots. “Is it your place to ask me questions?”

“I will ask you anything you want,” Raoul said stubbornly. “If I have a place, you put me into it by force—certainly you can’t claim any rightful authority over me after you kidnapped me…”

“You came here of your own will.”

“…threatened my beloved and held me prisoner.” Raoul was flushed. Once his anger had seemed to Erik not frightening but at least a challenge; now it only seemed amusing. “Tell me what you plan to do with me. I cannot force you to act justly but at least be honest. Have you no honor, monsieur?”

Erik sighed. “I have no obligation to treat you any particular way, or to tell you anything. My plans?”

He lifted the boots up for a moment, then tossed them into the water. They sank out of sight. “I plan to do whatever I want. You’re mine. I’ll dress you how I want, tell you what I want, do with you what I want…”

He approached the table and put his hands on Raoul’s shoulders. “Don’t make demands when you have no power to enforce them.”

And then Raoul’s head hit his face, hard. He stumbled back, cursing, as Raoul rose out of the chair. The table knife Erik had foolishly given him was in one hand, and it seemed he had used it to cut the rope tying him to the chair. Erik took a step back and felt in his pocket. His own knife was there—he didn’t draw it yet. “You seem to be fond of blades, monsieur.”

Raoul’s eyes gleamed. He brandished the knife in front of him, but it was clear from his stance that he knew nothing, really, about knife fighting. He’d gotten the better of Erik with a sword once, but with this weapon it would not go well with him.

Still, if nothing else he had bravado. He said, “Draw open the portcullis and let me leave. I won’t send the police after you. You can live your life in peace. Otherwise I will prove to you just how I enforce my demands.”

Erik grinned. “I love the way you talk, darling. And so brave, too! Like Jeanne D’Arc, except she wore trousers, didn’t she?” He shrugged. “Show me, then.”

Raoul took a step closer. Then another. He was holding the blade all wrong but at least his stance was wide. Erik waited until he was just a few feet away. Then he lunged forward.

He blocked Raoul’s knife arm, sending it wide, pinned Raoul’s skirt to the floor with his foot, and punched Raoul directly in the chin. Uppercut. Raoul flailed backward, and Erik swept his legs. When he hit the floor, Erik stepped down on his knife wrist, grinding it down with his heel. “Drop it.”

Raoul struggled to get up, to push Erik off. Erik gently put his other foot over Raoul’s throat. He pressed down ever so lightly. “You’ve lost. Drop the knife.”

Raoul stared up at him, anger and fear mingled in his expression. Erik pressed down on his throat until he wheezed for breath and his grip on the knife relaxed. Then he stepped back, kicked the knife away, and knelt at Raoul’s side.

Raoul was still gasping. Erik put a hand to his throat just in case. The boy was always feisty. “I am tired of you testing me.”

“Then let me go,” Raoul rasped.

“You should remember how you got here,” Erik said. “I accepted you instead of Christine, and I accepted your life instead of your death. You want to call the bargain off? All right.” He ssqueezed Raoul’s throat, just enough for a reminder. “I can kill you and bring her back here, the way I wanted to begin with. Then we’ll all be happy, won’t we?”

“No,” Raoul said.

“No? You don’t want to die? You don’t want me to bother your lover?” Erik brushed sweaty hair off Raoul’s forehead. “Show a little gratitude. I’m not impressed by your behavior so far.”

“You can’t expect me to…”

“I can expect anything from you. It’s not my fault if you don’t measure up.” Erik leaned closer and spoke in Raoul’s ear. “Tell me, will you be better? For Christine’s sake?”

“I’ll be better.”

“How?”

“I…” Raoul grimaced. “You can fuck me.”

The words were shocking, and genuinely not what Erik had been driving at. He laughed. “Where did you get the idea that I’d want that?”

“You’re dressing me like…a woman…you want me to replace Christine…”

Erik shoved him against the ground, then stood. “You have a high opinion of yourself, monsieur.”

He fetched some rope and tied Raoul’s hands and legs. Raoul didn’t fight, but it was somehow uncomfortable. What had been practical before now felt intimate. Sex with Raoul…the boy had realized he was attracted to him. The offer was tempting—more tempting when he saw Raoul like this, panting from exertion, hands tied and body swathed entirely in silky green, a dress of Erik’s choosing. Still, it was not quite on the mark.

“You want to replace Christine?”

Raoul eyed him cautiously. He was still sitting on the ground. “I think it is what you want that matters, now. And that is what you want.”

Erik sighed. He pulled Raoul to his feet, bracing his back. “Loving Christine was not about sex to me. She was about…” What, really? What had drawn him to her, what had he wanted from her? The companionship, the innocence? The thought of maybe building a home, like a normal man?

“She was going to by my wife,” he offered at last, unsure why Raoul compelled him to honesty. “One wants a wife for more than that.”

He brought Raoul back to the table and sat him down in his chair. “Here. You never finished. I’ll feed you.”

Raoul let Erik feed him bread, mouthful by mouthful. When Erik withdrew to eat his own food, he said, “Fine, then.”

“Fine, what, monsieur?”

“I’ll be your wife.” Raoul’s tone was clipped. “Leave Christine alone.”

Erik smiled. Raoul, behaving himself? A likely story. Still, he’d pretend to buy it for now. “Very well. Darling.”

When dinner was over, he wiped his mouth off and kissed Raoul on the lips, lingering for only a moment. Raoul kissed back. It seemed he’d committed to the charade, then. It would be interesting to see how long he could keep it up.

And, a part of Erik thought, to see if he had been serious about that other offer. But that was a matter for another night. He didn’t need to push Raoul too much all at once. After all, they would be together for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Some ppl drew art of this y'all! I can't believe. Go look at it!  
> https://master-koschei-saxon.tumblr.com/post/182587534759/poor-raoul-a-collab-between-myself-and


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